The Breakfast Club
by alwaysflying
Summary: Five high school students meet over a Saturday detention. Suffice it to say that the lives of Maureen, Mark, Collins, Benny, and Roger are changed forever.


**The Breakfast Club**

**Disclaimer: I do not own RENT. Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the Breakfast Club. John Hughes does. Also, the text from Mark's letter to Mr. Jefferson is taken directly from the Breakfast Club with only minor changes for names, the date, the location, and the subject of the essay.**

_Saturday, March 24, 1973. Scarsdale High School. Scarsdale, New York, 10583. _

_Dear Mr. Jefferson,_

_We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write this essay telling you who we think we are and who we'll be. What do you care? You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms and most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Correct? That's how we saw each other at six o'clock this morning. We were brainwashed…_

The sun rises over Scarsdale, New York, bringing with it a warm Saturday morning. This would normally be a terrific start of the day for just about everyone, but for Maureen Johnson, Mark Cohen, Thomas Collins, Benjamin Coffin, and Roger Davis, that is (sadly) not the case. As a matter of fact, for those teenagers, the six o'clock sunrise is most definitely the low point of the day. Why? Because it means rolling out of bed and making their way to Scarsdale High School for a Saturday morning detention.

Well, to be perfectly honest, the detention actually ends up being the highlight of the weekend – the week – the month – no, the _year _of these teenagers' lives. But _shh_. They don't know that yet, and it's always best not to spoil things for the protagonists.

The ever-glossy Maureen Johnson is the first to arrive on the scene of the high school. She is sparkling as always, though her arms are crossed over her chest with a mildly adorable pout over her face as she daintly sits beside her father in his year-old Mercedez-Benz. Inconveniences? The lighting is dim due to the early hour, and truth be told, Maureen ought to have chosen more comfortable shoes – but still, she is comfortable in the car and would prefer not to leave. Yet she has to. With that determination in mind, Maureen neglects to give her father a kiss on the cheek before departing for her detention.

Arrival Number Two, Mark Cohen makes it very clear in his fidgeting that has never been in detention before. That much is evident from his mother's stern expression and the giggles coming from his sister Cindy in the back seat. Mark resents both Cindy and her swim instructor at the moment, because after all, Cindy was only brought along for the ride because she has swim team practice in a half hour, and she likes to arrive early. Supportive as Mark is of his sister's swimming – after all, it gets her out of the house and out of Mark's hair for a whopping _nine hours a week_ – Mark takes this moment to regret having suggested it to her in the first place. After all, were it not for Cindy's swimming, Mark wouldn't have to endure the presence of his sister for this humiliating moment. So it is with great haste that Mark mumbles, "See you at five," before hurriedly exiting the car. He slams the door closed a bit harder than he intends to, and the energy created by the door's closing pushes Mark up the hill leading to the school and into the double doors.

The next arrivals are in quick succession, all with their heads down and hooded winter coats masking their identities. Principal Jefferson, watching from his office, ticks them off his clipboard list in order of their arrival: Benjamin Coffin, Thomas Collins, Roger Davis. The third – the fifth arrival altogether – is a common feature at Scarsdale High's detentions, whereas Collins' is a quiet presence with excellent grades and a rebellious history, Coffin a well-liked athlete with a solid reputation. All three are familiar faces around the school – and so, in fact, is Maureen Johnson. The second arrival, Mark Cohen, is as of yet unknown to the principal, but from the looks of him, Principal Jefferson suspects that there isn't much to the awkward-looking kid that couldn't be inferred from a few quick glances at him.

Detention is scheduled to begin at six-thirty, but habit compels the principal to wait for the clock to announce that it is six-forty-one. He likes for his prisoners – yes, prisoners – to sweat it out a bit while awaiting detention's beginning, although with Davis and Collins present, chances are the others have already been warned what to expect. Or perhaps not. After all, there isn't much for two rebel kids to talk about with a jock, a geek, and a diva.

"Students!" Jefferson declares, throwing the cafeteria door open and entering. It is always his goal to startle the students in the middle of their doing something particularly interesting – kissing, for instance – but he has never quite managed to do so. This is a particularly close call, however; upon Jefferson's abrupt entrance, the room's sole female occupant – Johnson, Jefferson reminds himself – scuttles on her hands and knees atop the table from just above Coffin's seat to the other end of the table, empty, where she settles down in an unoccupied chair. It is no mystery what Johnson and Coffin were discussing; its graphic content is evident in the challenging chin-resting-over-fist expression shot to Jefferson by Johnson. She dares him to inquire about her conversation, and he dares not to. It is rarely a good idea for one to penetrate the mind of a teenage girl, particularly when one is a school principal who has seen too much already.

"You are all here for detention, correct?"

A general murmur of assent comes from the five assembled students. Davis goes so far as to make a mock-salute against his forehead and bark, "Aye-aye, sir!"

"That's enough," Jefferson says in his most commanding tone, but reason reminds him that they are teenagers – Davis in particular, who has been a "teenager" since age ten and will most likely continue to do so through his thirties – and so their natual response is simply to ignore the fact that anything was said at all. Therefore, it is progress for the slighest bit of attention to even have been paid him, because teenagers are _teenagers_, after all, every last one of them. Even Mark continues to scrape the dirt out from under his fingernails, ignoring the principal's presence – seated alone at the table just behind Maureen and Benny's.

To the right of Maureen and Benny's table sit Davis and Collins, facing opposite directions with their chairs tilted to add to the drama. An outsider would be clueless, but Jefferson personally suspects that they are behaving in such a way not because they even _know _each other, much less dislike each other, but simply because they want to watch different things unfold; Roger wants to watch his fellow students interact with one another, while Tom watches the principal's reactions. Neither boy seems particularly impressed with his discoveries, however, because their scowls do not change.

"You," Jefferson says, walking between the tables, up and down the aisle, "are to write an essay."

"Really?" Davis half-yells, obnoxiously, from his seat.

Jefferson sighs. "If you keep talking it'll be another Saturday, Davis, so please be quiet." What he doesn't say is that it is too early for this _fuckery_, and he doesn't want to deal with any of this now. He carries on, talking over Davis's loud interruptions, "You are each to write about where you see yourself in ten years. In case you find yourselves incapable of doing that math, most of you will be _twenty-seven_," he adds, chuckling at his own (poor) joke.

"I'm eighteen," volunteers Collins from his seat, kicking his ankles up onto the table. "I'll be twenty-eight."

Davis marvels at this boy's audacity and makes a "whipped" gesture in the air. "He sure got you there, Dick," he tells Principal Richard Jefferson, and then drawls, "And I'm sixteen, by the way."

"_Whatever_," exhales the principal, already exhausted despite the fact that it is only half past six. He has forms to fill out and college recommendations to butcher; these students could surely serve this detention on a Monday or a Tuesday or some other day when he _doesn't have things to do_. "Do you need pens?"

Maureen, deciding to take her place as Princess of the Group, declares, "Yeah, 'course we do."

"I have my own," fourteen-year-old Mark chimes in from his seat, only because commenting seems like the thing to do now that everyone else has shared at least one line of input. Except, that is, for Benny Coffin, but then again, he was having some sort of sexual conversation with Maureen, and surely that counts as input.

"Well, la-de-fucking-da to you," Maureen retorts. She, unlike Mark, speaks because she is tense – _who in the hell has to wake up this early?!?! _– and cannot stand it when she has nothing to say.

"Please," Jefferson says, a pleading drawl in his voice, "Do not start this idiocy at this hour."

A loud snort comes from Tom Collins as he draws from his pocket a magazine and begins flipping through the pages. Maureen, one table over, cranes her neck over to see it. The moment she first gets a good look at it, Maureen relocates herself to the corner of Tom's table just beside said eighteen-year-old and his forbidden magazine. "Why're they all _guys_?" she murmurs, her breath hot in Tom's ear. Tom, who had previously not noticed her presence, hurriedly snaps the glossy periodical shut and shoves it back in his depthless coat pocket.

It is then that Tom and Maureen discover that they are being watched – by Principal Jefferson, Benny, Mark and Roger. All four appear to be curious, but not enough to ask, possibly because of the _loud _nature of Maureen's whispered comment.

"I will be leaving now," Jefferson declares, and does just that.

The door does not close behind the principal, because he props it open with a small stepladder. Roger gestures towards the ladder in question, silently offering to let the door slide shut, but fervent reactions in the negative prompt him not to do so.

"So," Roger says loudly, having never gone so much as a single waking hour without speaking (including taking exams and standardized tests, throughout which Roger is known to make regular obnoxious commentary in a slightly louder-than-usual speaking voice). "What are everyone's names? I'm Roger."

Mark, hunched over with his pen pressed against a clean page in his notebook, shoots Roger a dirty look. "I'm trying to write," he mumbles. Roger hears him loud and clear.

"Hi, Trying To Write," Roger sing-songs.

"No!" Mark exclaims. "I'm not – I mean, my _name _isn't – I was just saying – "

Roger rolls his eyes. "I know what you meant, freshman. But I was asking you your name."

The blonde sighs exasperatedly. "I'm _Mark_," he grumbles. "Mark Cohen."

Roger, who, like everyone else in the school, has neglected to have heard of Mark Cohen's Outstanding Academic Achievement award, is less than impressed. He moves on to Maureen, inquiring, "And who might this fine damsel be?"

Maureen giggles. "I'm Maureen," she replies. "Maureen Johnson. I'm a junior."

"Lovely to meet you, my darling," Roger tells her earnestly, but his attention span snaps and he turns to another member of the group. "And your name?" he asks.

"Benny," the athletic boy answers. "I'm Benny."

Roger, uninterested, moves on to the room's final occupant. "And you are…?"

The fifth boy hesitates. Tugging his beanie cap further down his head, he at last responds, "I'm Tom Collins. You can call me Collins. Everyone does."

Roger nods. "Good. Okay. You're a senior, right?"

Collins shrugs. "For the second year in a row, yeah."

As Mark, Benny, and Maureen's pens scratch against their paper – in all cases but Mark's, most likely writing each respective student's name – Roger and Collins continue talking, with the ever-chatty Roger in the lead. "So why were you held back?" he queries.

Collins' answer is inaudible as a particularly noisy truck passes by the high school, although his last few words ("...oh, and that time I streaked through the gym…") are audible. As it turns out, Roger is better off not knowing what it is that Collins said, because the senior has a smirk on his face seeming to suggest that Roger _asked _for the information with which he was provided, after all, so Collins is hardly at fault. Alarmed, Roger does not point out that he was not provided with any information at all, electing instead not to know.

"Why are you in detention today?" comes a startlingly fresh voice. The question is directed at no one in particular, though it is spoken by a bright-eyed Maureen. She is looking up from her barely-begun essay at the group, waiting for an answer. When none is immediately offered, she shrugs and suggests, "I could tell you why I'm here, if you guys all tell me your reasons."

"I genuinely don't care," Collins announces, and Maureen stares at him.

Roger shrugs. "I'd like to know," he mumbles.

There is an uncomfortable silence as each student watches the others in hopes of having another one share his or her reasoning behind attending this detention. "How 'bout you?" Mark asks Benny, turning abruptly to him. "Why're you here?"

Benny turns his stony gaze to Mark and gives him a look that resembles one that a tiger might give a mouse before devouring it. Mark, who does not particularly wish to be devoured, edges away. "Sorry," he mumbles, but Benny's gaze softens and he almost smiles. It is an utterly cliché moment, and Mark almost suspects that Benny's demeanor will turn evil once more just as soon as Mark's face shows relief.

"Nah, I'll tell you," Benny says, voice light as though he has read Mark's thoughts. "It was, uh, it was 'cause of a fight."

A fight! The third-best piece of gossip available _at _Scarsdale High! Maureen swiftly swivels around to face him. "A fight?" she echoes, pen poised above her piece of paper as though about to take notes. Mark, whose goal in life is to _observe_, after all, spots this and chuckles.

"A fight," Benny repeats, and his voice turns hazy as he tries to capture the details in his mind. "I – well, there was this girl."

Roger squawks in horror. Maureen demands, "You fought a _girl_?"

"No!" Benny yelps. "No, uh, see, there's this guy Tony Mann."

"I know Mann," Roger interrupts.

"Shut up!" snaps Benny. "Okay. Well. Anyways, yeah, everyone calls him Mann. Or 'the man.' And he has this girlfriend – Mimi, I think, is her name. I don't know. She's way younger. Maybe seventh grade. He's kind of a pervert. Well, I don't think he's – he's – okay, never mind. Moving on." He pauses. Of course, it is _that _bad, a twelve-year-old dating a boy whom everyone knows to be a drug dealer. At least, those are the suspicious surrounding him, and surprisingly, Scarsdale High School gossip is often accurate.

"So I'm working with Timan on this geometry project – teacher chose our partners – and I was trying to find him so I could give him the project sheet, 'cause he was absent the day before. Right? And I saw him, so I went over to him, 'cept then I saw that he was hitting this little girl. _Tiny_. Well, she was like, twelve. And he was beating on her. And the first thing I thought was _what's she doing in this school_? And then I realized she must be his girlfriend, and he was hitting her, and he'd probably smuggled her in that morning just so he could have her around if he felt like he wanted to hurt someone. Her. Whatever."

Maureen, whose jaw is dropped in a nearly comical expression, exclaims in horror, "So what did you _do_?"

Benny plows on, a determined expression clear on his face. "I went over to him and I asked him what the fuck he was doing. And he said it was none of my business. He seemed pretty annoyed at being interrupted, and kind of surprised that I had the nerve to go up to him. I was too, actually. So I almost walked away, and I heard the girl crying. And so I turned around and beat the shit out of that bastard."

An silence ensues. Benny's eyes are fiery, not at all like Mark's shy averting of the eyes of all those who had just heard his reasoning behind his detention. As the others attempt to soften Benny's gaze, the only way of doing so appears to Maureen in a split second. "Okay," she says. "I'll tell you why I'm here."

Benny, who is just about as subtle as a brick, corrects his slouch and turns to face the young diva. "Go on."

Maureen shifts and pretzels her legs on the chair. "Well, mine's not as bad as yours," she tells Benny apologetically, "or as stupid as yours," she adds to Mark. "It's, it's nothing really. I just skipped, uh, class. Well, most of the day, actually. Me and this guywere making out behind the school, and we decided school sucked, so we climbed onto the roof. Or tried to. Didn't work. Well, I got up there okay. Then my friend, the one I was doing this with – sort of half-fell, and he ended up kind of smashing against a classroom window, which was sort of open. So he fell in."

After a deep breath, Maureen continues. "And of course I was accused of orchestrating this. By the time they found me, that is. Which was six at night. I was really freaked out up there, actually, but I couldn't get down on my own. Eventually my brother found me." Maureen's voice suddenly fades at the mention of her brother. "So. Yeah. That's what happened." She finishes speaking, but her tone is half-hearted. Her brief eye contact with Benny is awkward and she drags her eyes away to stare at the surface of the table.

"What's the deal with your brother?" Benny inquires, sounding asinine even as he asks.

Maureen shakes her head. "Nothing," she mumbles. Then, in a burst of faux-peppiness, she spins around to face Roger and Collins. "Okay, your turn!" she chirps. "One of you guys talk."

Collins, though skeptical of Maureen's sudden change of attitude, shrugs. "Fine." He picks up his pen and then places it back down on the table as he considers exactly how to phrase what he is about to say. After a moment, he appears to have come to a decision, because he swallows and then looks around the room. His eyes settle on Maureen as he begins. "A – a friend of mine, and me – we were, we were, we were performing certain acts that are apparently prohibited on school property. I think, however," he says, eyes glinting wickedly in a way that he will be sure to use in the future, "that the nature of my punishment was based on the gender of my partner."

Mark, who was listening with his head on the table, abruptly looks up. "You're gay?" he asks suddenly, words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"I hope you don't have a problem with that," Collins remarks serenely, feet up on the table.

"My best friend is gay," Maureen comments to herself, but nobody is listening. She even knows that, but it does not stop her from saying it.

Mark shakes his head fiercely. "I don't," he says hurriedly, warding off what may be a potential ambush from the tough-looking Tom Collins. "Really." Then he is quiet. On his paper are the scrawled words: _Saturday, March 24, 1973. Scarsdale High School. Scarsdale, New York, 10583. Dear Mr. Johnson… _

"That's weird," Maureen informs Mark, peering over to glance at his paper. "What's with that? The date, and the, the name of the school, and the zip code…?"

Mark blushes. "I like to keep myself updated. To have background informatinon. So in ten years, if I read this…"

"You're not _gonna _read it," Maureen points out. "You're giving it to Jefferson."

"Am I?"

There is a ringing silence following Mark's casual inquiry, and Roger guffaws. "Not as innocent as we might think, huh, Cohen? Tell me, kid, what'd you do to get in here?"

Mark shakes his head. "How 'bout you?" he shoots back.

"You first."

At last it is Mark who breaks the silence. Watching his roughed-up sneakers – which, by the way, greatly contrast with the geeky prep-school boy theme of the rest of his outfit – Mark hesitantly offers his story.

"They, uh, they caught me sneaking into the teachers' lounge. I usually manage to be pretty unnoticeable, but some substitute saw me when he was looking for the coffee machine. I don't know why it was that big a deal, actually. I was just watching so I could get ideas for my – " Mark suddenly breaks off and blushes fiercely. "Never mind. That's, um, that's my story." Mark lets his reasoning hang in the air in all its invisibility and shoots accusing glances at the other adolescents in the room, whose giggles echo in the enormous room.

Maureen, Benny, and the schadenfreudic Roger all do their best to hide their laughter, with Roger failing miserably as his chortles are audible throughout the room. "Sorry, man," he says to Mark between choked laughter, "but that's really pathetic."

Mark flushes, thinking that Roger is referring to the crime itself. "Shut up," he mutters, although he is half-trembling, because he has always been taught that boys like Roger can be "unpredictable."

"No, moron," Roger retorts. "You should know the first thing about me: Roger Davis never shuts up. Yeah. And besides, it's just that the teachers' _caring _about your spying is pathetic." Roger's flawless grammar passes smoothly under Mark's Intelligence Quotient radar, and he genuinely is interested in what Roger may have to say. At Mark's uncertain nod, Roger crosses his long-sleeved arms over his chest. "I bet you had a really good reason," he muses. Then, as though suddenly realizing that he said that aloud, retracts it. "Sorry. What'd you say your name was again? Matt?"

"Mark," said boy corrects him gently. He does so with an air of well-you-didn't-know-so-no-worries rather than the expected hey-man-just-shut-the-hell-up. After all, it is in Mark's nature to be kind to all, which even includes the disagreeable Roger and his swaying attitude.

It is, in fact, unpleasant for Mark to have to coexist with Roger – in the presence of three other teenagers, no less. Boys like Mark do _not _socialize with boys like Roger. It simply isn't done; nothing ever happens between soft-spoken observers and troublemakers like Roger.

"Your turn," Mark says sharply to Roger. "You have to – "

Roger shakes his head. "Later, or never," he says shortly. With that, the room is again plunged into a brief silence. Of course, Collins is compelled to break it.

He gets to his feet. Since he had formerly been leaning back on his chair, there is a slamming noise as the chair topples back onto its four legs, and Collins onto his two. From there he lunges across the room and leaps to the door, his hand pausing over the doorknob. "Shall I?" he inquires, mimicking Roger's question from earlier.

"Yeah," Roger says, breataken by the boy's audacity. And he'd thought _he _was the only one with nerve in his school.

"_No_," insists Maureen, but Collins neither likes her nor enjoys her presence enough to heed her. He merely shoves the stepladder in the door's path out of the way, and in the split second before the door crashes back into its frame, he sprints across the room and lands back in his seat.

The students wait in a frantic silence for Jefferson to arrive, enraged, but he does not.

Jefferson is downstairs in the basement, leafing through confidential files and confiscated magazines.

---

"Okay," says Mark after a long time. "So… what would you be doing right now if you weren't here?"

Benny double-takes. "Me?"

"Yeah, you."

The burly athlete shrugs. "I didn't know strangers could ask people that kind of shit," he tells Mark coolly. "You think we're friends or something?"

Mark flinches back as if stung. "Sorry," he grumbles, and returns to his essay. Now four more words have been written, the incomplete beginning to an incomplete sentence. _I think I am_.

Collins has lit up what appears to be a joint. Roger has relocated to the seat beside him in hopes of being granted some; Roger, who has never been high or stoned or even _drunk _before, has appearances to keep up and intense curiousity as to what under-the-influence feels like. The senior, however, seems to have no intention of giving Roger any of his precious joint. The way he occasionally slides his fingers up and down the joint is clear evidence of his affection for it.

Maureen, in an attempt to cure her boredom, has dug nail polish out of her bag and is offering a ten-dollar prize reward for whichever boy is the first to allow her to paint his nails. Roger, who already wears eyeliner, is considering the offer; nobody really looks at his fingernails anyway, and besides, he'd wash it off as soon as he gets home. What he needs is the ten dollars. But, he reminds himself with a hateful glance at Maureen's tiny bottle of nail polish, it's _magenta_.

"Eh," Roger says at last, "whatever." And he approaches Maureen and says firmly, "Make it forty and you can do my toes, too."

"Not happening," Maureen says instantly. "Twenty, sure."

"Thirty."

"Twenty-five."

Roger shakes his head. "No way."

Maureen, who doesn't need the money anyway, slaps thirty dollars on the table. "Only because I'm bored," she warns.

Roger rolls his eyes. "Methinks you just want an excuse to touch my feet," he drawls sarcastically.

"Ew!" Maureen exclaims, and then realizes that he was kidding. "You're disgusting," she tells him between half-hearted snickers.

"You messin' with Johnson?" Benny demands, craning his neck over to Roger. It is worth noting that his head previously was, and still is, resting on the table at which he is sitting. "'Cause, you know, man, if you're doing that, I'ma have to… uh… whack you with my pen. Or something."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Do better than that, pretty-boy, or you're gonna lose your girlfriend. She's _rubbing my foot_, Benny-boy."

Maureen giggles. "It's _platonic_," she insists, but cannot keep from smiling.

The door slams open, and it is Principal Jefferson. He is beaming, delighted that for once he has managed to interrupt a somewhat-interesting scene. "Stop touching her feet, Davis," he drones. "Go sit down, and stop talking, and – Collins. Collins and Cohen, go get drinks from the East Wing vending machine. I don't care how you do it, collect money and figure out what everyone wants, and – just go."

He storms out, back to look at his confidential files.

Mark springs to his feet. "Okay, what does everyone want?" He pulls out a miniature notepad from his shirt pocket and begins scrawling something down. He murmurs to himself, "So I want a fruit punch…"

"Vodka?" Roger inquires casually. Mark looks stricken for a full thirty seconds before Roger bursts out laughing. "Relax, man, I was just kidding," he says. "Gimme a Doctor Pepper. Spiked."

Mark shoots him a murderous look and writes down the name of the drink before turning to Benny, who grunts, "Water."

"Get it yourself," Maureen mocks. "Diet Coke, please, Mark."

Mark shoots her a grateful smile. "You don't need it, you know," Roger comments, either to be charming or because he geniunely wishes not to be forced to look at Maureen's protruding ribcage. "You're really skinny already."

"False," Maureen tells him, and that is the end of that.

Mark and Collins leave, making a brief pit stop at the latter's locker to retrieve several questionable substances that have not been legal in New York in almost fifty years. ("Um… isn't that, isn't that marijuana?" Mark inquires meekly, but he is neither given an answer nor interested in pursuing the question. Collins gives him an abhorring look, and Mark – who is used to receiving this kind of reaction from people, particularly those who do not know him very well – turns away to insert the money, a dollar at a time, into the vending machine to purchase everyone's drinks.)

When Collins and Mark return, Maureen is metaphorically sandwiched between the enraged Benny and intoxicated Roger. The latter, whose pupils are dilated and appears to be ravenously hungry, is distracted from his verbal spar with Benny the moment his soda arrives. He reaches an arm out to snatch up his Doctor Pepper and chugs it, giving Collins a grateful look and refusing to acknowledge Mark.

"Mood swings," Maureen hisses unsubtly to Mark, "are a side effect of being Roger. Don't be upset." Mark, who is not upset at all and is in fact expects such treatment, shrugs it off.

Roger and Benny continue to glare at each other. "I don't like you," Benny declares dully, and swings his foot out to smack Roger in the crotch. Roger sharply intakes a breath and gets to his feet.

"Yo, Coffin, man, either shut the hell up or fucking fight me," Roger growls, but Benny eyes Roger's burly frame and retracts his chair a few inches. "'S'what I thought," Roger slurs, and gets to his feet. "_Out_," he snarls at Mark, whose seat is as far from Benny as possible, and Mark gets out of his seat to allow Roger to sit down. "Now sit the fuck down somewhere else."

Mark takes his seat, not wanting to anger Roger further, and stares at the paper bag used to contain his lunch. "Think we can eat now?" Maureen calls to Mark from across the room, and when Mark shrugs, Maureen takes that as assent. She pulls out the salad from her bag, stored in a plastic container.

"That's not food," Roger tells her flatly.

"Then what the hell is it?" she snaps back.

Roger shrugs. "Maybe cat shit?"

Maureen crosses her arms over her chest. "I _have _a cat," she informs Roger. "Lettuce in no way resembles her shit." As if just to irritate Roger, she takes an enormous bite of salad. As she swallows, her face contorts as though shrinking, and she works hard to swallow it without bubbling nausea. Roger watches, jade eyes taking in each of Maureen's facial expressions and physical movements.

"Mark," Roger yells across the room. "Toss me your lunch. Actually, no, screw that, get over here. Get the hell over here. Bring your lunch." Mark obeys, and when he arrives beside Roger, the guitarist pushes him into a chair and begins rummaging through the paper bag.

Drawing out one item at a time, Roger makes a commentary. "We have a sub sandwich," he begins.

"Cheese and tomato," Mark says helpfully.

Roger wrinkles his nose. "No meat?" he asks, mid-way through a bite into Mark's sandwich.

Mark shakes his head. "I'm kosher," he explains. "I don't eat meat with dairy."

Completely revolted, Roger shakes his head in disgust. "Whatever," he says, and draws out another item. "Let's see… soup." He takes a long sip and declares, "Tomato." Then he pulls out a juice box containing store-brand apple juice, which is followed by a vanilla pudding cup and a plastic spoon.

Maureen stifles her snickers as Mark gathers his food back up with a cautious eye on Roger, hoping he isn't about to be penalized for the juvenile contents of his lunch. "Kid, I'm sorry, but if you don't move outta the house right now, this'll be your lunch when you're _fifty_."

Not even Mark can conceal his shudder of disgust. "Yeah, you see?" Roger laughs. "It's gross, dude." He turns around in search of a more challenging victim, and finds one. "Collins, man. Hit me. What'chu got?"

In response, Tom Collins withdraws from his bag one long, battered marijuana cigarette. Roger roars with delight. "Yeah!" he yells. "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout, man!"

Of course, it is unwise to _roar _when one is supposed to be silently writing an essay, and Principal Jefferson feels the same way. He storms into the cafeteria and says very firmly to Roger, "Davis. If you make another _sound_, I will give you detention until you graduate. Oh – and I'll send you back to freshman year, so it'll be _four straight years _of Saturday detentions. See how much you like that." He storms out and slams the door behind him.

"That guy has some serious issues with porn," Collins comments.

"Porn?" echoes Mark, not because he doesn't know what it is, but because he has no idea what pornography has to do with the situation.

"Yeah, don't you know?" Roger pipes up. "He keeps storming in and leaving real quick 'cause he's got to get back to his, his, his magazines."

At the mention of magazines, Collins smirks. Roger catches on and, thrilled, exclaims, "Oh, you got some, man? Let's see 'em!"

"Um," says Collins, "I don't think you wanna see 'em. Remember when I said I was gay?"

Roger winces. "Ooh. Yeah. Um, keep that away from me."

"I'll have one," Maureen yells. "I mean – I'm a girl – so it's just like how guys look at girl-on-girl. Right?"

Mark wrinkles his nose. "_I _don't," he points out.

"'Cause you're a fag," Benny mutters.

There is a thunk as Mark's head slams down onto the table. Roger, who was not previously paying attention, turns to see the source of the noise, and turns to Benny, livid. "Man, he's a freshman," he snaps. "Shut the fuck up. If he's fucking gay, shut the fuck up, it's none of your fucking, fucking, fucking business."

"Fuck," Benny throws in, "you."

Collins and Roger make eye contact from across the room. Roger nods curtly, and Collins gets up swiftly. Roger follows suit, and before Benny can say a word, he is benig pressed against a wall by a second-year senior and an underclassmen, both of whom are stronger than Benny – the football player. It is slightly embarrassing, he must admit.

"Leave. Mark. The fuck. Alone!" Roger growls, kicking Benny harshly in the ankle. It should occur to him that there might be a reason for his protective behavior towards Mark, but it does not even cross his mind. When later he considers it, Roger tells himself that he would have behaved the same way for anyone. (Doubtful.)

"Chill," snaps Benny, and a knee to his groin keeps him silent.

Collins stares at him coldly. "Fucking asshole," he growls.

"What the fuck is your _problem_?!" Benny demands.

Roger grins wickedly. "I," he declares, "am king of this detention, and I declare that there is to be no homophobia. Or any other shit like that. Or girls with shirts on. Sorry, Maureen, that includes you. And you, Mark."

"I'm not a girl!" Mark squeaks.

The falsetto he uses to say the above is enough proof of Roger's theory. In an imitation of an airplane-safety video, Roger declares, "Please take off your own shirt before assisting somebody else."

Maureen does so, and when Mark remains reluctant, she laughs. "You think he was kidding, babe?" she asks the freshman cheerily. "Not the case. Off with it, dearest." When Mark still neglects to comply, Maureen snatches the shirt off of his torso, climbs on top of the table, and places the shirt like a flag on top of the flagpole. "Too bad freshmans can't reach that high up," she says mock-regretfully.

Mark glares at her. "It's _cold_," he wails.

In a mocking tone, Roger squeaks, "It's _March_."

"Exactly!" Mark exclaims. "It's cold!"

Maureen shrills, "It's _hot_!"

"I bet I know why," Roger mutters.

"Let me _go_," Benny whines.

When Roger snatches up Collins' joint, the latter growls, "Give it back."

Roger, because he dislikes being the only one without something to complain about, grumbles, "Everyone stop fucking _whining_."

And they do.

Only, that is, for a long enough time to Benny to mutter an apology to Roger, Collins, and Mark. Roger reluctantly releases him. Seeking forgiveness, Benny tugs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers it to the others. So a circle is formed, including the five detainees, their lunches, and Collins' expertly-created miniature fire, a steadily-roasting stack of papers (namely, the students' essays). The fire is small and unlikely to spread, but it provides warmth and comfort. For safety's sake, however, the students are in agreement that should a fire break out, it will be Benny's duty to break the glass containing the fire extinguisher.

There is a silent agreement, however, that if the fire _should _spread beyond control, they will simply leave, and allow Jefferson to burn along with the rest of the school. That is a far more comforting thought.

"So," Maureen says conversationally, "I can touch my tongue to my nose."

Roger snickers. "Maureen can touch her tongue to _anything_."

Everyone laughs. Except, that is, for Benny, who has been eyeing the underclasswoman since the start of the detention. It is assumed that he resents Maureen's well-known prominiscuity because of his (however slight) feelings for her. The same applies to Roger and a certain other student, whose identity shall remain a mystery for the time being.

"I can put my foot in my mouth," Benny says, adding on to Maureen's recent declaration.

Roger shrugs. "I can… uh, I can play guitar."

"Congratulations," Collins tells him dully. "What can you do that's more unique than that, smartass?"

Another shrug. "Um… I can shoot up without using my hands."

Benny looks mildly impressed. Collins rolls his eyes.

"Well, what can you do, smart-ass?" Maureen demands of Collins. He pales.

"Not telling," he says, his coffee-colored skin beginning to resemble a light cinnamon.

Benny sighs dramatically and pulls a wrinkled ten-dollar bill out of his shirt pocket. At closer inspection, Collins realizes that it is in fact a checkbook, and probably one that won't bounce the way Collins' father's does. "Name your price," Benny says.

Collins crosses his arms over his chest. He needs the money, of course, but he also needs his dignity. With a deep sigh, he mumbles, "Thirty," not knowing if Benny would accept a higher number, and begins to disrobe from the waist down.

"Whoa, hold it there, cowboy!" Roger yells obnoxiously. "You're, you're taking off your pants, buddy. That's not cool."

Collins gives him a look that is a mixture of pity and disgust. "The _trick_," he growls, "involves masturbation."

Benny casually caps his pen and tucks the checkbook back into his pocket. "I don't think it's really necessary," Mark agrees.

With a smirk, Collins demands, "Can _you _masturbate with your tongue? Hands behind your back?"

Looking slightly green, Mark trails off, "I don't really know why you'd want to…"

"Collins here," explains Roger, "is _very _into the tying-up shit. Mm-hmm."

"Fuck off," Collins replies, punching Roger playfully in the arm.

But Roger winces, and Mark spots it. In a sudden bizarre motion, Mark dashes forward, yanks up Roger's long sleeve, and reveals the track marks left by heroin.

But they clearly aren't all heroin marks. Though those are clearly the most obvious of the marks, there are also scratches from razorblades that Mark does not think were accidental. To make matters worse, there is a jagged knife cut running from the backside of Roger's shoulder to just above his elbow.

"Cutting yourself?" Maureen whispers.

Roger shrugs. "Some of 'em," he responds. "Others are from Dear Old Dad. He lives with me, my mom, and my stepdad, and he's always beating me for shit."

Although Mark and Collins look shocked, Maureen and Benny nod knowingly.

"What do your parents do?" Roger asks Maureen quietly.

Her head down, Maureen confesses, "They hate me."

"How's that?" Mark cuts in.

"I'm the middle kid," she explains. "Third of five. My brothers and sisters are all doctors and lawyers and stuff, or want to be, and I'm just… I'm the oddball. I want to be an actress. I want to make people care. But _they _don't care. My parents don't care. They just want me to make tons of money and give them grandkids."

As everyone shoots Maureen and Roger pitying looks, Benny joins in the conversation. "My parents… they push me. They say I need to go to college, get a scholarship, and when I was little they told me to pick a sport to work on." With a bitter laugh, he sneers, "I haven't rested since."

Next is Mark, whose story is hardly even a story. "Mine," he says, "hound me." With a huff, he mumbles, "It's like I'm five. All I want to do is live with my grandmother."

For once in his life, Collins has nothing to contribute to the conversation. Sensing his hesitation, Benny demands, "Perfect home life?"

Collins nods. "For the most part. Me, my very accepting and liberal parents, my bisexual brother James, and my little sister Rhondia – James says she's 'well on her way to becoming a lesbian,' so we'll have two straight people, a bi, a gay, and a lesbian in the house." He snickers, accompanied by a hesitant Mark.

"But what I lack in family drama," Collins adds, "I make up for in sex stories. Anyone else interested?"

As it turns out, there is not a single high-schooler in the world that can pass up the opportunity to waste time in detention by discussing sex and past relationships. Of the five detainees of Scarsdale High School's Saturday detention, not a single one refuses to sit in a circle with the other four and recall the good, bad, and smutty past relationships.

Mark's is first, as his is expected to be the least entertaining and the most jeer-worthy. "I… I just had one, before," he mumbles. "One girlfriend. So I think I'm gay. But – anyway. It wasn't even a girlfriend, just a girl who had a crush on me who wouldn't let go of my leg for weeks. I was thirteen and she was… I don't know, a lot younger. Anyways, I don't remember her name. And that's it. No sex."

Cheeks flushed, Mark turns to Maureen. "Your turn."

"Why?" she asks playfully. "Because I'm straight and you want to hear about my stories with guys?"

As Mark sputters incoherently, Collins points out that it is certainly the case for him, and could she please hurry up already? Maureen obliges. "Well… I'm kind of a virgin," she begins, and Benny and Roger cheer obnoxiously. She hushes them and continues, "So I don't have a sex life. My friend… I know _his _sex life back and front. He basically _is _my sex life, because he's gay anyway and I know everyone he dates just as well as he does."

Nobody is really interested in the tales of how Maureen met her friend at a club and comforted him after a very noticable break-up between him and his boyfriend. So while she babbles to the equally inexperienced Mark, the three upperclass_men_ form a circle of their own and begin sharing stories, the majority of which ought not to be disclosed.

As these stories come to a close, the subject turns to anger. Collins and Maureen go off to pursue their own conversation, leaving Benny, Roger and Mark to themselves.

"I," says Benny, "have been dumped so many fucking times, it's insane."

Roger grins. "'Cause you're an asshole," he tells him gleefully.

"I didn't ask you," he informs him. "So there's this girl, right? My first steady girlfriend. We dated for about two months, it was great, and she was my first that I wasn't cheating on. But she heard from some old girls that I cheated on _them _at that dance a few years back – remember, they did this tango-themed thing? – and so she dumped me. Said I wasn't being faithful."

Mark is next. "My sister," he says, "is the golden girl. Completely golden. Cindy Cohen – hold your applause. So my parents have always liked her way, way, way, way, _way _better than me. They liked her from the minute she was born, actually – so much that I'm _ten months younger than her_. They wanted to try again a month after she was born. So they're always obsessing over her, and when I was in seventh grade, I ran away from home to my grandma's house. I was gone for three days and three nights before they realized they were missing a kid. _Three days and three nights_."

"In eighth grade, there was this asshole," Roger says briskly. "Don't remember his name. He was always beating on me. I was sick of it. First day of ninth grade, I took his arm and twisted it behind his back, made him cry with insults, and kicked him in the shin. Hospitalized for four days – he was, I mean. Nobody would _touch _me after that."

As the boys conclude their discussion, Maureen and Collins return, and the subject changes to passion.

"Film," says Mark immediately. "I know, it sounds cheesy. But… well, okay. My grandma – I'm really close to her – was twenty-two when her parents kicked her out. She needed a job, so she got one – as a dancer at weddings and Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and stuff. Since the celebrations always started after the photography, but she always had to stick around for that part, she would watch the pictures being taken of the leading family. And she was totally – _mesmerized_. So she became a photographer – and so did I. That's what I love." As a blush begins to form on his cheeks, Mark turns to Maureen. "Your turn."

She, like Mark, begins by uttering the name of her passion. "Acting," she intones. At Collins and Benny's skeptical expressions, she breaks into an explanation. "I used to go into the city with my sister Lia. She'd take me to see shows, 'cause back then, she was nice. I loved shows, and she loved the city, so it worked out really well. But – then she graduated from high school and turned into a total conformist, doing everything Mom and Dad told her to do. She became a dentist. _In the suburbs_. And I was so fucking _pissed _at her for doing that – I was in sixth grade at the time – that I'd go and see shows without her and feel like I was rebelling against her. And I get to watch people on stage and let them make an impression on me, let their words and motions roll over me, and I hope I can absorb enough talent to do that for other people someday."

Mark smiles at her. "We're in love," he tells Maureen, and does not have to specify who with what, because Maureen knows as well as Mark does that he is referring to the fact that they are both besotted with their art forms of choice.

This is not, however, a condition that applies to either Benny or Collins. While Collins explains that nonconformity is his true love, Benny's "love" – if one could call it that – is far from artistic or abstract. He tells a story of how he first "met" his sport.

"I was, uh – well, my cousins and I used to go to the city, kind of like you and your sister," he begins, eyes on Maureen. "To go to the gym. We just wanted an excuse to leave Scarsdale, to be honest. So we'd all hang out at the gym and mostly talk and not exercise, but what our parents didn't know didn't hurt anyone. It was just a lot of fun, and my parents decided that by freshman orientation, I had enough experience with lifting weights and doing… other gym stuff that I might as well try out for a sport. I _had _to. They said that I needed a scholarship, and I had exactly two days to choose my sport. I got stuck with football, so that's it."

And then there was Roger.

He has nothing to say apart from two sentences. "Ever since my dad moved in with me and my mom and my stepfather," he says, "I have been so emotional about every little thing that I _needed _an outlet. Music."

"You sing?" Maureen asks curiously. "I sing."

Roger nods. "And I write my songs. And play the guitar. But mostly I don't write my songs, I just remember them. I don't sing other people's songs."

"Well, I do," Maureen chirps. "Give me one of your songs."

Roger glares at her. "They're mine," he snarls, and in that moment he resembles a five-year-old whose security blanket has been snipped away into nothingness.

"Captain Cranky strikes again," Mark laughs, and Roger gives him a warning punch to the shoulder. Although Mark is fairly certain that Roger's violence is all in fun, he wonders if this is a definite case. Having never been hit prior to meeting Roger, he does not know what to expect.

Mark does know one thing. Or rather, he wants to know one particular thing, and is sure that Collins would have the best answer. So the two teenagers duck into a corner and begin talking; Mark in a low, urgent whisper and Collins in his typical voice with a slightly amused lilt to it. "Collins," Mark gasps out, "I think I love Roger."

This would be less funny had Collins not been informed twenty minutes prior by Roger that the feeling was mutual, and although Collins does not wish to disclose this information to Mark, he does snicker, clap the boy on the back, tell him not to worry, and announce, "I'm gonna go write my essay." He departs for the main part of the cafeteria then, Mark hot on his trail. Maureen, Roger, and Benny are stationed atop tables in the middle of the room and wait expectantly for the two.

"Hey, Collins?" Maureen asks casually.

"Yeah?"

"We were thinking," she tells him. Before Collins can make a snide remark, she continues, "We were thinking that maybe we don't all need to write an essay. Maybe just one person does. Because I'm pretty sure you're the only one with enough ideas about this shit to actually write a whole essay on it."

"Me?" Collins asks, bewildered. "No way. I don't know _any _of what I'm gonna say."

Mark peers up from between blond bangs. "I do," he says softly.

Neither Collins nor Maureen hears (although Roger does), and the junior and second-year senior continue their argument until Roger yells, "_Mark said he'd do it_!"

Mark, who said no such thing, merely shrugs as all eyes turn to him. "Sure," he mumbles. "Yeah. Definitely."

He goes to sit at a table by himself, pen pressed hard against the paper as he strains himself, praying for the words to flow as smoothly as they do in his scripts. The only applicable metaphor pertains to the way often, the water of a river runs swiftly and smoothly, but other times, rocks interfere. In this case, Mark's struggles are identical to the rivers' patterns; he neither triumphs nor fails in his first few attempts at an essay, but feeling that he has not yet struck gold, Mark continues to form new drafts.

Roger sits beside Mark for the entire time, making occasional suggestions and corrections. When the entire essay is written, Roger reads it out loud. "Dear Mr. Jefferson, we accept that we had to spend a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who you think we are and who we'll be. You see us as you want to see us. In the simplest terms, a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, Mark Cohen, Roger Davis, Maureen Johnson, Tom Collins, and Benjamin Coffin."

"It's good," Roger admits. "It's really awesome. Except for…"

"The ending," Mark says. "I know. The names thing doesn't work. We're a group now, right? I mean – aren't we?"

Roger pauses. "What do you mean?"

With a sigh, Mark inquires, "If you see me walking down the halls, are you going to take my lunch money or slap me five?"

With a shrug, Roger answers, "I don't see any reason for us not to be friends in public. Do you?"

"Yes," Mark says, and he gathers up all the courage he possesses and clenches his fist around the pen, storing all his bravery in the one container of ink and soul.

"Yes?" Roger repeats. "What – what? I mean, why not?"

With a deep breath, Mark gasps out, "Because I want to be more than friends."

It is ten seconds later that Maureen enters, sees her two friends kissing, and whoops with delight. Collins and Benny look up from their joints to spot the two boys' embrace, and they pull apart reluctantly only in time to see the clock tick four-forty. Only twenty minutes left.

"Maureen?" Mark calls across the room.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something? Um – and you two," he adds to Benny and Collins. Roger moves to join the group, and he nestles against Mark for a better view and more comfort. "I was just wondering," Mark says, "if we're still friends on Monday."

No answer is immediately forthcoming. The first of the the responses comes nearly a minute after Mark's inquiry, and it comes from Benny. "No," he says carefully. "No, I don't think so. I mean – don't get mad!" he exclaims hastily. "It's not that I don't like you. I _do_. But I personally would have so much less of a reputation if I was seen with, say, Mark. People wouldn't like me, and I'd get into fights, which would bring down my grades, which would impair my sports participation, and – no scholarship."

"Fuck you," whispers Maureen, because she knows that there will be no force in the world on Monday strong enough to stop her from dashing toward Mark and Roger and hugging them fiercely.

Collins' answer is much more uplifting. "Absolutely," he says. "I don't think you could convince me that not maintaining our friendship would be ethical. Why would you even do it? For social gain? No. I'm Tom Collins – I don't do _anything _for social gain."

Mark and Roger laugh, and Maureen swivels around to face them. "Well?" she asks. "What about you two?"

"I," says Roger, "am not going to be Mark's friend on Monday."

Mark pretends to be shocked. "Why not?" he fake-whimpers.

"Because," Roger explains, "I am going to be his devoted boyfriend." Another kiss is issued to Mark's chapped, bitten lips, and Roger receives one from Mark in return. Their tongues appear to intertwine for a brief moment prior to their release of one another, at which point Roger gives the group a wicked grin.

"Do you want to know why I'm here? Why I'm in detention? Roger asks.

"Why?" the group asks him eagerly.

With a huge smile, Roger answers, "For having a hate song to my father on the back of my trig homework. It was pretty gory, I'll tell you that – it was about patricide. Needless to say, Mr. Douglas didn't appreciate it, so – here I am."

"I'm glad you wrote it," Mark says shyly. "One, so your reason for being here is really meaningful and valid – unlike mine – and two, because your being here means that I've met you."

Maureen erupts into a predictable _aww_.

The clock, now reading four-fifty-one, is notably two hours fast. But none of the adolescents care, and Collins declares, "Let's leave."

"Sure," everyone says in essence, and they get to their feet, put on their winter coats, and gather their belongings. The group exit is held up by only two people: Maureen and Benny, talking in the back of the room. "Listen," says Maureen to her long-time acquaintence. "I think… we should have what Mark and Roger have."

With a laugh, Benny asks, "A homosexual romance?"

"No!" she exclaims, giggling. "Just… _a _romance. Is that too much?"

Benny answers by swinging an arm around his friend's shoulder. "One step at a time, Maureen," he tells her, and kisses her left temple. "One step at a time."

As they exit, Collins and Mark and Roger return to the room from their former location by the exit to the building. "I have a name for us," Collins says devotedly. To Mark and Roger's inquisitive looks, he expands, "The Breakfast Club."

Mark, in one smooth motion, strikes out the names of his fellow group members and replaces the words with three: "The Breakfast Club," just as Collins suggested.

"I love it," says Roger.

"I love it," repeats Mark.

As Collins exits the room, Mark presses his lips to Roger's again and, upon release of the boy who surely must be his boyfriend now, declares, "I love _you_."

Roger smiles. "I love you too."

Exactly eleven minutes later, the five detention prisoners are gone. One is at sports practice, one is asleep, two are on the telephone, and one is fighting with her siblings. As these things occur, Scarsdale High School Principal Richard Jefferson steps into the cafeteria to find the students gone, with merely one note laid out on a single table. Infuriated, he picks it up and begins to read.

Whether or not the words mean a thing to the apathetic Mr. Jefferson is a toss-up; all that is known that from that coming Monday forward, the jocks and the princesses and the criminals and the brains and the basket cases have a new clique to deal with. It goes by the name of the Breakfast Club.


End file.
